Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (8 page)

Kandi shook her head and waved it away.

“If I ever fall in love again,” she said, “shoot me.”

“No problem.”

I thought about telling her what I’d overheard outside Quinn’s trailer, but decided against it. The last thing Kandi needed was incontrovertible evidence that Quinn had been cheating on her with Audrey as well as Vanessa.

We spent the next few minutes at the buffet table, Kandi unable to keep her eyes off Quinn and me wondering just how long it would take the chocolate chip cookie to take up permanent residence in my thighs.

Then suddenly we heard Dale Burton’s voice behind us, raised in anger. We turned and saw him at the stage door, shouting into his cell phone. “Just tell Bernie to call me back!” For once, he seemed to be on a legitimate call. “This is the third time I’ve called today. Where the hell is he?” He slammed the phone shut and then realized that we’d been watching him. “Agents,” he shrugged, with a forced laugh. “They’re impossible, huh?”

So his agent wasn’t returning his calls. Not a good sign.

He smiled feebly and headed back to join the other actors on stage.

“Okay, everybody,” Audrey called out. “Let’s get started.”

At last, the run-through was about to begin.

Vanessa put the bubble gum she was chewing under the coffee table, and the show got under way. I stood with Stan, Audrey, and Kandi, each of us making notes in our script, checking off the jokes that worked, and making X’s where the jokes died. Later, we’d return to the Writers’ Building and think up new jokes for the failed X’s.

Everything was going smoothly until the scene where Zach comes to pick up Muffy for the prom.

I guess it was an unfortunate choice of words, given the circumstances.

In the script, Quinn hands Vanessa over to Zach and tells him: “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

It wouldn’t have been so bad, if he hadn’t said it with a suggestive leer that reminded everybody of exactly what he
had
done with Vanessa on the pink chenille bedspread. It was all too much for poor, lovestruck Zach.

“I’ll kill you!” he said, lunging at Quinn.

I don’t know how Zach built up his rather impressive set of muscles, but this much I do know: it wasn’t from boxing. He must have thrown five punches at Quinn, all of which Quinn easily deflected.

“Calm down, kid,” Quinn said, grabbing Zach’s arms and pinning them behind his back. Zach struggled in vain to get free. But Quinn held on tightly, laughing, which just infuriated Zach all the more.

“I really would like to kill you, you slimebag!” he shouted, his face red with rage.

“You’ll have to get in line for that,” Quinn said.

Truer words were never spoken.

Somehow the actors managed to stumble through the rest of the run-through. But by now the script was the last thing on anybody’s mind. Which, Kandi insisted, was a good thing.

“It means they’ll leave your jokes alone,” she said.

And she was right. We barely made any changes to the script that night. Audrey, looking uncharacteristically harried, sent us home early. I asked Kandi if she wanted to come over for dinner, but she was headed off to an emergency session with her shrink, Dr. Ira Mellman. Kandi has been seeing Dr. Mellman once a week for as long as I can remember. By now, she’s probably paid off his mortgage and put his kids through college.

Sometimes I think seeing a therapist might be nice, but I know what Dr. Mellman charges, and all I can afford from him is a get-well card. Besides, I figure whatever problems I’ve got, I can solve with Dear Abby and a nice hot soak in the tub.

So Kandi and I said good-bye, and I drove home, stopping off for my own emergency therapy—a Koo Koo Roo chicken take-out dinner, with extra mashed potatoes.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I called out to Prozac as I walked in the front door. I found her napping on my brand-new Ann Taylor silk sweater. She opened her eyes and glared at me balefully, then began kneading my sweater with her claws.

“Prozac,” I wailed, “what are you doing?”

Of course, I knew exactly what she was doing. Getting even with me for leaving her alone all day.

I issued her a stern warning. “That kind of behavior simply won’t be tolerated, young lady.”

Okay, so I didn’t issue any stern warnings. What I said was, “Look what I brought for dinner, lovebug! Roast chicken and mashed potatoes and brownies for dessert!”

She sniffed at the take-out bag, then shot me a look that said, “Great. And what will you be having?”

She wasn’t kidding. I’m lucky I got to eat my half.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t feed her people food. I shouldn’t cave in to her emotional blackmail. I should be strong and firm and blah blah blah. What can I say? I’m a pillar of tapioca. If they gave free mileage for guilt trips, I’d never pay air fare again.

Prozac and I were stretched out on the sofa, Prozac alternately licking her mashed potatoes and her privates. I was gnawing on a chicken wing and going through my mail, when I came across a manila envelope. I opened it and pulled out a sheaf of papers. It was Lance’s sitcom idea.

“If The Shoe Fits”

A Treatment for a Half-Hour Pilot

By Lance Venable

Welcome to the wacky world of shoes, where bunions are funny and laughter’s just an instep away…

Ouch. This was going to be painful.

If The Shoe Fits
turned out to be an ensemble comedy set in the shoe department of a high-end department store, starring a handsome yet hilarious shoe salesman by the name of Vance, an overbearing manager, a daffy ingenue salesgirl, and Vance’s pet parrot, Manolo Blahnik. The gimmick behind Lance’s show was that every week there’d be a famous guest customer. Or as Lance put it, “It’s
Love Boat
with arch supports!”

I won’t bore you with the excruciating details. Let just say that
If The Shoe Fits
made
Muffy ’n Me
look like something by Eugene O’Neill.

“Oh, jeez,” I moaned to Prozac, “what am I going to tell Lance when he asks me how I liked it?”

We were both about to find out, because just then there was a knock on the door.

“Jaine! It’s me, Lance.”

I thought of pretending I wasn’t home, but surely he knew I was there. With his x-ray hearing, he’d have heard me rattling around the apartment. I thought of pretending I was in the tub, but if I’d been in the tub, he would have heard the water running. I thought of making a break for it and sneaking out the back door, which seemed like a pretty good plan, until I remembered I didn’t have a back door.

Oh, well. There was no getting out of it.

“I’m coming,” I called out.

I opened the door, a brittle smile plastered on my face.

“Hi,” I managed to squeak. “Come on in.”

“So?” Lance asked. “Did you read it?”

That’s it! I’d tell him I hadn’t read it!

“Looks like you did read it,” he said, pointing to the pages scattered on my coffee table.

Damn. Why did I leave them out like that?

“Uh…yes,” I admitted. “I read it.”

“And? What did you think?”

This wasn’t going to be easy, but I had to tell him the truth. I’d just tell him, in a gentle yet honest way, that it stunk worse than a month-old pair of Odor-Eaters, and that it had about as much chance of selling as one of Prozac’s poops.

“Well, Lance, actually, I…”

“Yes?” he said, eager as a puppy waiting to be adopted at the pound.

“I loved it.”

Oh, God. Did those words actually come out of my mouth?

“I knew you would!” he grinned. “So, what should I do with it now?”

Put it in a shredder, then burn the remains and bury them. At least six feet under.

“Can you show it to the head writers on your show?” he asked. “Maybe they can do something with it.”

Are you crazy? I want to work for these people. I can’t hand them this piece of caca.

“Sure. I’ll be happy to.”

Obviously a demented doppelgänger had gotten hold of my powers of speech.

“Thanks, Jaine. You’re an angel.”

He gripped me in a viselike hug, then floated back to his apartment on a cloud of unrealistic expectations.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I asked Prozac when he was gone.

She shot me a look that said,
Don’t get me started
.

And then I realized: There was an easy way out. I’d simply hold on to the treatment for a few weeks and pretend that Audrey had read it and turned it down. This way I’d let Audrey be the bad guy. A role I suspected she was eminently suited for.

I tossed the skeletal remains of our chicken dinner into the trash, then headed for the bathtub, where I soaked for a good forty-five minutes. There’s nothing quite so relaxing as a hot soak, especially if it’s accompanied by a cool chardonnay.

And I needed all the relaxation I could get. Tomorrow was Friday, tape day, the day my script would be recorded for posterity. Who knew? Maybe
Muffy ’n Me
would run long enough to go into syndication. Maybe decades (even centuries!) from now, generations of slack-jawed insomniacs would be watching my show in re-runs on Nick at Nite. This could be my ticket to immortality.

I only hoped we could make it through the taping without a fistfight.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

TO: Shoptillyoudrop

FROM: Jausten

SUBJECT: Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!

Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!

Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!

Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

SUBJECT: Flipped Out

All right, dear. You’ve made your point. I won’t give your number to Ernie Lindstrom, even though Edna has been positively begging me to.

Like I said in my last e-mail, your father has completely flipped out. This morning he was standing at the bathroom mirror counting the hairs in his ears. What sort of man goes around counting his ear hairs? “Oh, God,” he kept saying, “I’ve got more hair in my ears than on my head.”

And yesterday I caught him snooping in my car. He pretended he was looking for a Kleenex! We have boxes and boxes of Price Club Kleenex in the linen closet, and he expects me to believe he’s looking for a Kleenex in my Camry. There’s no doubt about it. Your daddy needs psychiatric help. I’m seriously thinking about slipping some antidepressants into his Wheatena, but how would I get my hands on antidepressants? I don’t suppose you could run down to Mexico and pick up some for me, could you, darling? If not, I’ll order some St. John’s Wort from Home Shopping, only $39.95, plus shipping and handling.

That’s all for now. Got to run to the dentist.

Mom

TO: Jausten

FROM: Daddyo

SUBJECT: Exhibit “A”

I have proof positive that your mother is having an affair. Yesterday I happened to be looking for a Kleenex in her car, when I found a bottle of Love Oil!

TO: Daddyo

FROM: Jausten

SUBJECT: Huh?

Love oil? What do you mean? Love oil?

TO: Jausten

FROM: Daddyo

SUBJECT: Wake up and Smell the Coffee, Part II

You know. The stuff they advertise in the back of men’s magazines. Right next to the inflatable sex dolls. Your mom and Mr. Koskovalis probably rub it on each other, as a prelude to their sick, kinky sex.

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

SUBJECT: Love Oil

Wait till you hear the latest. Your father claims he found a bottle of “love oil” in my Camry. I asked him to show it to me. He went out to the car, and searched high and low, but of course he didn’t find any “love oil” because there was no love oil to find. I really think he should be seeing a therapist. Please ask Kelsey Grammer if he knows a good one here in Florida.

TO: Shoptillyoudrop

FROM: Jausten

Mom, Kelsey Grammer isn’t really a therapist. He just plays one on TV.

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

How about his brother Niles? Maybe you could ask him.

Chapter Nine

“F
or this, I’m missing Jeopardy?”

Mr. Goldman was pissed. He and the rest of the Shalom gang were in the audience waiting for the taping of my show to begin. They’d been sitting there, cooling their heels, for the past forty-five minutes. The show was supposed to have started taping at seven, but we had to wait for Stan and Audrey to get back from a network meeting out in Burbank. According to Bianca, they were stuck in a massive traffic jam on the Hollywood Freeway.

I’d come out into the audience to say hello to my students and was beginning to wish I hadn’t.

The young comic who’d been hired to keep the audience in a festive, ready-to-laugh-at-anything mood (known in sitcom circles as the warm-up guy) was getting desperate. He’d long since run through his supply of jokes and was now asking the audience to hum the theme songs from their favorite sitcoms.

“Feh,” Mr. Goldman said in a stage whisper that could be heard in Pomona. “You call that funny? That’s not funny.”

Unfortunately, the rest of the audience seemed to agree with him. People were squirming in their seats and looking at their watches. Great. Just what I needed. An audience of malcontents.

“I’m hungry,” Mr. Goldman whined. “They keep us waiting so long, they should serve refreshments. A canapé. A pig in a blanket. A potato puff, maybe.”

“Have a Tic Tac,” Mrs. Pechter said.

“I don’t like Tic Tacs. I like Certs.”

Mrs. Pechter rolled her eyes in annoyance.

“And where’s Vanessa?” Goldman said. “I didn’t come all the way across town to see some pisher comic. I came to see the babe with the big tits.”

“Please, Mr. Goldman. There are youngsters in the audience.”

“Okay, I came to see the babe with the big bazooms. Is that better?”

“You’re impossible, Abe,” Mrs. Pechter said, shooting me a sympathetic look.

“You think maybe you could get me Vanessa’s autograph?” Mr. Goldman asked.